


Notes for the Inevitable Fleabag Fic You are Going to Write

by Syberina5



Series: God Help Us [1]
Category: Fleabag (TV)
Genre: Blasphemy, Cussing, F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:48:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27578087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syberina5/pseuds/Syberina5
Summary: Title: Notes for the InevitableFleabagFic You are Going to WriteWord Count: 395Disclaimer: I was an altar server from elementary to high school and never had tingly feelings for a priest. I swear. But there’s just something about fictional priests.Summary: After all she’s a fleabag motel… somehow owned by the Ritz Corp.Author’s Notes: I watched the whole show in a day, had lots of feelings, and fic has not been able to make them go away. Hopefully a little plot guinea pig care and feeding will do the trick.
Relationships: Belinda/Fleabag (Fleabag), Fleabag/Priest (Fleabag)
Series: God Help Us [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2015849
Kudos: 7





	Notes for the Inevitable Fleabag Fic You are Going to Write

Sex with Belinda starts practically by accident {“God, I am drunk enough to kiss you without your consent.” “I am drunk enough to let you.” And she does, thrilled to finally have that which she has been jokingly, and not so jokingly, after for months.}.

Her father is silently honest with her {“What,” she shrieks, tears still down her face, “what fucking is it that has you still letting this woman sleep in Mum’s bed”—she only ever says mum when she’s too drunk or emotional to fucking care anymore—“the orgasms cannot be that good!” And her father is silent. Then silent some more. “Noooooo.” She gulps, tears drying rapidly. “Noooo… Really?” He makes eye contact. He doesn’t fidget and jerk away every few seconds. “Fuck” because well... fuck. She’ll never get rid now. “Fuck.” Still, there’s an element of womanly pride—ew, ick, horrors; not her—because a woman—even this one—fucking that well and enthusiastically—nearly publicly—as she gets on in years is actually fucking remarkable—and why the fuck should that be? It’s a strange feeling: pride anywhere near the bane of her existence.}.

Belinda thinks they have one sort of open relationship {“I may have many dildos, darling, but I don’t have an actual penis…if you find that is something you need from time to time.”}, but they have another {“God.” “Yes, so you’ve said.” “I can’t say no to this; you know it.” “Oh Father, you say no to me all the time.”}, and sooner rather than later it blows up {“Then go. He can have you; I’m done. I am done with your childish whining and neediness, your desire to not just be loved but _feel_ loved and indulged _constantly_ rather than ever accept fault and move on. Your apology is shit. It’s shit!”}.

After all she’s a fleabag motel {“Ah, isn’t this rather the caliber we’ve come to expect from you?” the cunt says with perfect clarity as though it was supposed to be some private, murmured slight rather than a clear bell through the group.} somehow owned by the Ritz Corp. {“Miss, welcome home,” he says swinging the door wide so she doesn’t even have to sully her hands with the pull. Makes her feel like a fucking Royal, that.}.

Only that's all out of order and not entirely how it happens.


End file.
